To Claim Love is What it Isn't

I question what my ideas of love are daily. You see, from the time I was a little girl, I have had the narrative of what love looks like handed to me in its neat little doctrinally sound package: Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

Again, I question what love is daily.

Is love all these things that this well-known scripture claims it is? Or furthermore, can love betray all these things and still be love? Does love fall on its face again and again, betraying all the things it claims to be and still be every bit as authentic as it is in its perfection?

Is love only love when it is all these things, or when it does all these things? If I am unkind or easily angered by someone, is it true that I must not love that person in that moment? Is it true that love must have many kinds of bi-polar attributes to it? In other words, is love either switched on or switched off at any given moment, depending on the action of the individual who claims to love another (or not love another, respectively)? But my question goes far beyond this, and I wonder if I may even be thought foolish to consider my questions. Can love be authentic even when it plunges into the negative? Can love be authentic even in the betrayal of love itself?

I don’t even know what I’m saying. All I know is that my whole outlook concerning the nature of love is being deeply challenged. It would appear that love is not all the things that it claims to be, but maybe even exactly the opposite.

Love, it would seem, never perseveres and always fails.

But it doesn’t make me seek to find it any less. 

All Saints Day for an Ordinary Person

When asked to write about someone who’s passed away but who’s also been very influential in my life, my first inclination switched from this person to think of someone more important to society as a whole. I think of the Mother Theresas of the world, the Ghandis, heck, even the directors of local soup kitchens would do. For some people it’s easy for someone famous and whom they’ve never met to make a profound impact on their life, those people may have read a book or two, maybe watched a documentary or interview about the famous person.

For me, I can’t embellish a story that’s barely there in the first place. Sure, I’ve met and read literature on some pretty great people, but have I been profoundly influenced by them? No, not like I have been by someone else, someone far more ordinary, someone who barely did anything great—except for maybe break the record for the running long jump in his fifth-grade track meet.

My brother Chad had terrible taste in music. He liked terrible musicians like Metallica and AC/DC and all their terrible songs. When he got his braces off, his teeth were scarred everywhere except where the brackets had been from all the Mountain Dew Big Slams he drank. He liked detestable “foods” like pork rinds, Jackson Pond snapping turtles (no, really), and blueberry candy canes, and with this diet, he was nearly unbearable to be around on a hot day if he forgot his deodorant. He was the kind of brother who pulled his bothersome little brother’s hair so much that he started to get a bald spot. He was the kind of brother whose horseplay with his sister ended with an unfortunate mishap with a preheating iron, searing its imprint into her butt.

But above all the ordinary things he was and did, there were three extraordinary things that I most loved about him: one, the fact that I, his little sister, got to teach him how to drive a stick shift. Two, his uncanny ability above anyone else to beat me in any game of chess—one-on-one chess, team chess, speed chess, it didn’t matter. And three, he could get me to smile no matter how mad I was at him.

What I’m trying to say is that you realize that the ordinary things about someone are truly extraordinary once that person is gone.

Sometimes the most ordinary people in the world are who influence you the most. They’re the ones that make the biggest impact on your life, not in what they do and say, but simply because they have existed in this life alongside of you. You’ve shared meals together. You’ve fought with each other. You’ve shared your secrets. You’ve laughed at each other’s expense. You’ve grown close. Others have impacted me in this way: my younger brother, my husband, my mother.

I’m a different person today because I knew Chad. What Chat taught me while he was alive were no age-old wisdoms. I don’t necessarily remember any remarkable quality about him that I wished I had. If anything, he taught me that deer hunting did not have to be a silent affair. We could drive through the forest, blaring and singing the lyrics, “and all the girlies say I’m pretty fly for a white guy.” Mother Theresa didn’t teach me this. My brother did.

But the truth is, it was not Chad’s presence in my life that impacted me the most, but his absence. Because of his absence, I want to make all my relationships with people count. Because of his absence, it distresses me to leave a conversation on a bad note. Because of his absence, I look at life differently. Because of his absence, I doubt my faith constantly, but perhaps have more of a drive to figure it out. And, maybe most of all, because of his absence, I don’t really mind the smell of pork rinds on someone’s breath anymore, but I’m afraid that eating Jackson Pond Snapping turtle was a one-time, or rather, two-time deal.

The Day I Moved Into a Commune with No Showers

As Jeremy would say, it’s not the physical act of moving into a place with other people that’s the problem; it’s the mind-trip of doing so. It was a good thing we didn’t see it coming, otherwise we would have had too much time to take that mind-trip. To explain, we were supposed to take up residence in this church building on Thursday, November first, but the contract for deed/lease had been signed and we were anxious to get in and paint, to make it our home before ever taking up residence. Mainly, we wanted to get the kids’ rooms situated so that they didn’t feel uprooted in this whole process. But on Friday afternoon, as I sat at work, I got a text from Ryan asking if we’d like to split the cost of a U-Haul truck and that maybe we could move the next day.

We agreed to bring our families together for a night of pizza and painting and general readying of the new place now that we’d received a key. Ryan and Erin brought their dining room table—now our dining room table, and as we stood around it, eating a sort of Passover if you will, because we didn’t have any chairs, Erin began to pace. “Why don’t we friggin’ move in tomorrow? I mean, we’re bringing all the mattresses over tomorrow. Where’re we supposed to sleep? Both our families have hardwood floors!”

And so it began, this crazy adventure that we’re taking, this adventure that nobody seems to understand, and that I’m not even sure we do. And the highlights are these: Jeremy and Ryan are already deeply saddened that Alex and his array of home-brewed beers are not coming, and that Erin and I would have really benefitted from a voice of reason, Carla, in choosing these crazy paint colors for the girls’ room. Two of the three cats have been acquainted and greeted each other with decided unfriendliness. We still have hope though, for their greeting did not end with any scratched-out eyeballs. Our youngest, in an insightful moment put together the idea that she now has “two mommies,” and we begged her, whatever she does, please don’t also tell her preschool teachers that she has “two daddies” too. We just don’t feel like explaining that one yet, especially since (entirely coincidental, trust us!) we all four have tattooed wedding bands. Ryan met a neighbor and as he tried to make friendly small talk, the neighbor said, “So what’ve you got, like 4 or 5 families moving in?”

Apparently, rumor of a cult moving into the neighborhood has also surfaced, but with Ryan and Erin’s ancient Toyota station wagon with a gazillion bumper stickers like, “The earth does not belong to us. We belong to the earth,” “Coexist,” and “If you can’t play nice, play roller derby,” we're hoping the rumors of a cult will be dispelled fairly quickly. But in trade for what? For the idea that we are a bunch of dirty hippies living in a church with no shower? We might as well start smudging with marijuana leaves now, and then invite the neighbors over for coffee.

Ryan and Erin's youngest and our youngest playing dolls on the handicap chair lift

Speaking of trippy, there’s a trick to making moving into a commune a little less anxiety ridden: you’ve got to make your current living situation totally unbearable for moving into a commune to be a breath of fresh air. For example, our house has been emptied of furniture for weeks now. Because we had the floors refinished, it made little sense to move back in since we were so close to moving anyway. So imagine if you will, a small little house, all hardwood or laminate flooring, completely devoid of furniture or sound-absorbing rugs, and then imagine three crazy kids in it. I cannot even begin to describe how terrible that echo is. Forget a short fuse. I’ve had no fuse with my kids at all lately. Move into a building with 6,300 square foot to run in, even if you’re adding 3 more kids in the mix, it feels like a little bit of heaven. Heaven, I tell you.

There are two more things to note. One, I am now a music pastor, but if you refer to me as Pastor, I’ll never forgive you. And two, there was much conflict in me about this, it ended with my bloody nose. True story.

Getting Used To You

As Sarah and I walked the boulevard today, I reached up to touch my face, realizing that in the rush of getting out the door to meet her I forgot to put on foundation. As I felt my face flush from our brisk walk, I said aloud that I’d forgotten.

“I thought you gave up makeup,” she said, in reference to my August 5^th decision.

“I did. Foundation’s not makeup,” I replied. “It’s colored moisturizer.”

She laughed, and I admitted that I’d cheated, almost always wearing foundation throughout the whole ordeal, wearing a ‘full face’ of makeup when I sang at two different funerals (sparkly eye shadow and everything!), and  wearing a touch of mascara for a few of the days, especially recently.

“I think I’m ready to give up giving up makeup,” a said as I ducked under a low-hanging tree branch bordering the sidewalk.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You know, giving up makeup was really hard. For the first month it sucked. I didn’t want to look in the mirror because I looked terrible. Wearing makeup every day since I was 13 had trained me never to get used to what I looked like without it. But now, it’s not so bad. It took almost two months, but I’ve finally gotten used to seeing myself without makeup. This isn’t to say that I finally think I look better without makeup, but simply that I don’t feel rotten and unpresentable if I don’t wear it. Not to mention, not wearing makeup came in really handy when I gave up Conroy.”

Even my hairdresser says that she tries to go at least one day a week without makeup for this reason alone. “Women aren’t comfortable with themselves anymore because they are never purely themselves for most of their adult lives.”

And as I think I’ll officially give up giving up makeup, I realize that this may have been the point all along. The point isn’t that it’s wrong to spend $20 on a tube of hypoallergenic blackest black mascara. The point isn’t that that makeup won’t be acceptable at Shelter50 (where I’ll take up residence come November). The point isn’t that I made a decision to give up something and now I can’t turn my back on it. The point is that it’s possible to retrain your mind how to view yourself. Sometimes what you once thought was terrible is really neither terrible or beautiful; it’s just you, and it’s never a bad idea to get used to you.

How to Ethically Justify Abortion

I remember the blond-colored pine coffee tables, the floral-printed white davenport, the dainty hand-painted tea cups. It had been one of my first few visits with the women of my new husband’s family. A senior citizen now, “Linda” had sold the family ranch and moved into this apartment shortly after the death of her husband. Linda was my mother-in-law’s cousin. Also there was my mother-in-law’s sister. Linda sat across from me, my mother-in-law sat to my right, and her sister sat to my left. My mother-in-law and her sister, both very politically conservative, had been discussing the events of the 2004 proposed law to outlaw all abortions in South Dakota. “I just don’t see how any woman would ever want to have an abortion,” one of them had said. “That’s killing an innocent baby,” said the other.

I remember feeling too new to the family to offer any opinion on the matter, even though I would have agreed with them at the time.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Linda. “I’m alive today because I had an abortion, and I’d make the same decision again if I had to.”

Her simple admission commanded our attention. My mother-in-law and her sister fell silent, seeming to offer her the space to speak again.

“It was one of the most difficult decisions that my husband and I have ever made,” Linda said. “But at the time, I had three small children to consider. The cancer would have taken my life, and they would have been without a mother. My husband couldn’t have made a living and taken care of them too. We really did want another child, but life is more complicated than that.”

“Oh, Linda, we know that you aren’t one of those women who’d have an abortion without a good reason,” said my mother-in-law’s sister.

“You had a very good reason to have an abortion,” said my mother-in-law. “But girls have abortions all the time and use it like it’s some sort of birth control.”

Linda set her teacup down in its saucer and folded her hands in her lap. “I know you don’t think less of me because of my abortion, but you don’t have to justify my own decision to me. My point is that you never know the reason why any woman would choose abortion.”

This story has stuck with me throughout the years. I’ve given birth to two more children since hearing that story, and there is one thing that I know more than anything else: I would do anything for my children. This story has also stuck with me because of my in-laws’ reaction to it. These women loved each other dearly. And though the two of them are very conservative, and the other is very liberal, there seems to be a divide that was crossed that day. My mother-in-law and her sister, because of their love for Linda, and because of their knowledge of Linda’s character and her love for her children, understood why Linda would choose abortion.

I have women who are very close to me choose abortion at some point in their lives. You’d never know it to look at them, some of them friends, and others of them family members, but they are not terrible and selfish women, like many pro-lifers seem to think, and all of them are good mothers, and a couple of them, outstanding mothers. I know their stories, and all of them, for their given circumstances, I can understand why they chose to terminate their pregnancies. What’s curious about these women’s stories is that none of the women chose to share them with me until they knew they were safe in sharing their secrets. This took me taking a step back from whatever idealisms I may have had about the world, and learning to listen and relate to these women on a very human level. It took me having some life experience too, understanding that life and humanity can sometimes be very, very grey. A woman can never know what decision she might make for abortion until she’s in a situation that requires a decision to be made. Before this, a woman can only assume she’d respond a certain way.

As we go into another election year, and as with years before, political parties often seem hijacked with agendas that have little to do with the overall views of a party; I can’t help but feel like abortion is one of these issues. We have liberals saying that conservatives are heartless for imposing on women to continue pregnancies that they don’t wish to, for whatever reason. In contrast, you have conservatives denying that “extreme” cases happen, hence the Todd Akin controversy. I have personally known conservatives who feel like if they believe abortion is wrong, they need to vote republican, because at the end of the day, they can say with a clear conscience that they’ve had nothing to do with killing the unborn. In contrast, you have the pro-choice people saying that any shame or loss that a woman might feel about having an abortion is completely put on them by society and nothing more, thus, we as a society, both conservatives and liberals, have completely ignored the needs of women.

People who’ve known me for quite some time have asked me about my views in this area because they’ve seen me as a person of faith. They must figure that anyone who claims Christianity would surely believe abortion is morally wrong, and when they find out that I am largely pro-choice, they are mystified. One such person asked me if I was of the camp that says, “Well, women will keep having abortions, regardless of the law, so we might as well make them safe and legal.” I responded by telling her that to think this way, for me, would be grossly simplistic.

Allow me to explain.

Everyone’s heard the argument. One camp might say that if a girl finds herself pregnant, she got herself into that mess, so she can’t punish her baby for the choices she’s made. The rebuttal for this, of course, is that, sure, she might have “gotten herself into that mess,” but what is she supposed to do about it now? Of the same people who pat her on the back for not having an abortion, so too do they keep touting her irresponsibility in the first place. Beyond this, the woman is considered a leech on the system, a “welfare junky,” as it were because she is making the government (i.e. taxpayers) pay for “her problem.” You see the merry-go-round. There is no easy response, but I will say this: teaching social responsibility does not equate to kicking someone when she’s already down. To be pro-life—truly pro-life—one must come along side of women, without judgment, and value life even after a child is born, because in our day and age, it’s not just about considering a pregnancy or terminating; it’s about eighteen years of responsibility and, more often than not, ridicule. Because this is what many single mothers hear: “You are irresponsible,” “You are a drain on the system,” “You can’t buy your child popsicles with your food stamps, even though your child is just a kid like mine,” “Your child’s healthcare is not a right, but a privilege.”

Believe me, mothers who’ve had unplanned pregnancies hear every spoken and unspoken implication. I know this because I am one of those mothers, and I felt this even though I chose the morally “correct” choice of keeping my child.

But this argument does not get us anywhere as a society, because we are dealing with entirely different paradigms of thought, and both of them are pointing at the other and saying, “You are definitely wrong.”

The point which I want to address, and that I believe is largely ignored, comes from a rather raw personal experience of mine. It’s an experience that if I thought too hard about, it would deeply depress me. Choosing life is not that easy.

It was late Saturday afternoon on June 26^th, 1999. My parents, after deliberating with neurosurgeons, chose to not have my brother, Chad, undergo a surgery that would have created the space in his skull for his brain to swell. You see, Chad had been in a freak car accident and had suffered a severe brain injury. He and his co-worker had been traveling on a dirt road and came upon a bridge. As they crossed the bridge, one of the vehicle’s front tires rolled along an improperly secured plank. As the tire reached the end of the plank, the plank plunged down, causing the other end of the plank to come up and catch the axle of the vehicle. The plank caused the vehicle to twist and contort and stop cold, throwing Chad through the side window. It wouldn’t have mattered how fast they were going. He and his co-worker could have been going 80 mph or the estimated 35. The results would have been the same: fatality to the one who was not wearing his seatbelt. Chad was resuscitated on the scene and by Saturday afternoon had spent two full days in a coma at Rapid City Regional Hospital. The reason why my parents chose to forgo the surgery was because, though it increased his chances for survival, there was the potential for it to dramatically decrease the quality of life. Chad would have been a proverbial vegetable. My parents chose instead to wait out the swelling, hoping for the chance that the swelling wouldn’t render him braindead.

In the wee hours of the morning, after spending the whole night in Chad’s ICU room, I remember my parents shaking my younger brother, John, and me awake. They told us to say our goodbyes. Chad was braindead.

You may wonder what this story has to do with abortion. And I’ll tell you that it has everything to do with abortion.

We live in a time and place with immense advances in medical technology. Doctors can do amazing things. They can easily save lives with the cut of a scalpel or with the administering of a drug. But with these advancements of modern medicine, comes incredible moral ambiguity. We call this “ethics.” The ability to save lives that in past times was impossible comes to us as a double-edged sword. One cannot simply say that to not choose something is taking the moral high ground, because making no choice is certainly a choice. Forget about quality of life. My parents making no choice to perform a risky surgery, they were indeed making the choice for Chad to potentially die. I’m not saying that it wasn’t the ethical choice. I’m not even saying it wasn’t the moral choice. I am merely pointing to the level of ambiguity we are faced with as our modern society, choices that would otherwise need not be made.

In 2010, a nun was excommunicated from a catholic hospital allowing a woman to have an abortion. The woman’s chance of dying was nearly 100 percent, and she had already had four young children at home. You can’t tell me that making no choice for abortion is taking the moral high ground. In this case, to make no choice for the pregnancy to be terminated would be most definitely making the choice for the mother to die. American women in past times had to deal with pregnancy from rape or grave illness no matter what. Because of advancements of medical technology, what then is the more ethical choice? Women in many other countries still must deal with wartime rape and subsequent pregnancy. American women in past times, if diagnosed with cancer or had childbirth complications, had no choice but to die and leave other children motherless. Now, we can save a woman’s life in those circumstances. Are we meddling with fate? Are we interfering with natural forces at work? In some cases, not choosing to perform an emergency C-section is indeed making the choice for a woman to die. In some cases, choosing not to undergo chemotherapy because of a pregnancy is making the choice for at least one, and sometimes both the mother and child to die.

“You never know why a woman chooses abortion,” Linda had said. In common cases of abortion, I would pose this question: what support have we given mothers in order to choose to have their babies? If one is of the school of thought that society is not responsible for the choices of others, then that person should agree wholeheartedly with a woman’s choice to abort, because she’s not asking you to be responsible for her choices. Until support is given to struggling mothers and potential mothers in our country, people of this camp should bow out of limiting reproductive freedoms. People in this camp tend to think these women are selfish and evil, but the truth is, you love and cherish a woman somewhere who’s had an abortion. She's just has never told you because she fears your judgment. Chances are, she’s a phenomenal mother and your stereotypes will be deeply challenged. Second, I urge all who believe that extreme cases don’t happen, to step out of your bubble, with eyes wide open, and take in all the shades of grey. Choosing life is not that easy.

Makeup: A Hostage for Laser Treatment

One of those surveys that go around asks this question: if you were stranded on a desert island, what makeup item could you not live without? It’s an absurd question really, one that begs another question: why would you even wear makeup on a desert island in the first place? But for the sake of this blog, let’s just entertain the idea, shall we?

I have just about the saddest eyes in the world. The outer edges tip down and the only way for them to turn up and look halfway normal is to smile, but I can’t go around smiling all day for no apparent reason; that would be weird. People might assume that the counselor’s wife needs to be committed. To top off the sad tilt, I’ve got eyelashes that insist they must be golden blonde. They’re a lighter color than the hair on my head, and this is why I’m convinced that the God had absolutely no consideration for esthetics when he molded my face. He broke the mold, and not because he’d truly outdone himself, but because he knew he couldn’t make the same mistake twice.

As if the sad eyes weren’t unfortunate enough, I developed rosacea in my late teens, and it’s gotten worse with age. Rosacea is a chronic skin condition where the superficial blood vessels of the face are dilated. This dilation causes significant redness, sensitivity, puffiness, and scarring. Have I mentioned that my sad eyes are blue? Well, they are. My sad eyes with blue irises, surrounded by the white sclera, and then enhanced by chronic redness of rosacea makes me look almost as patriotic as an American flag.

Thank the good Lord for the smarty-pants chemists of the makeup industry! All of these reasons and more is why I love make up. Foundation is what keeps the grocery checkers at bay—because if I don’t wear makeup, I get at least three comments in a ten-minute shopping trip about how sunburnt I look. “Thank you for your sunblock advice,” I’ll say, “but this is just my glowing complexion.” I like watching their faces drop. It gives me satisfaction, even when I know it shouldn’t.

If I were stranded on a desert island and could only have one makeup item with me, I’d choose foundation. No, wait, mascara—because if my eyelashes pop, maybe people won’t notice the redness so much, but thanks to the honesty of grocery checkers, I know this wouldn’t be the case. Who am I kidding? I’d smuggle all the makeup items to that said desert island. Eye shadow, shimmering lip gloss, the works.

So, I’m going through an existential dilemma, I think. That, and I’ve been contemplating moving into a commune. No joke. I’ll tell you about it later... Anyway, I’m having a hard time imagining a housemate, who’s in dire need to pee, knocking on the bathroom door and my response is, “Excuse me, I cannot be bothered right now, otherwise I’ll get my lip liner crooked.” My point is, what is there to life when all I do is consume more than what is necessary? And what does it say about me when my daily consumptions include a twenty-dollar, water-resistant, blackest-black tube of vitamin-enriched mascara? And what does it say about me when this month’s biggest disappointment is that my favorite makeup company discontinued my beloved full-coverage foundation? Bring on the unsolicited sunblock advice!

So I’m giving up makeup. Slowly. It’s now been five days since I’ve worn eye makeup. I’m kind of chicken to give up foundation just yet though. Not until I go through all these vain laser treatments for rosacea. I’ll give up foundation after the redness is gone. I know, you are now stifling the urge to judge me, aren’t you? That’s okay. I judge myself too. I can’t quite seem to make the full plunge yet.

Stay tuned for my next existential dilemma: should I give up shampoo or not?

The Rise of Christianity, the Fall of Ancient Feminism

The argument is an old one, and yet has somehow kept its vigor, even in the 21^st century. What affect did Christianity have on gender roles in western society? Some people assert that the rise of Christianity effectively stomped out any ability for women to be considered equal for, arguably, millenniums afterward. Others might say that the writers of the Christian scriptures were the feminists of their day, affording each woman the hope and knowledge of spiritual equality to men in her own rite. So, which is it? Is the answer really that difficult to discern? And if so, why is it that these “spiritual” rights have not afforded women their “physical” and civil liberties too?

Liberties of Ancient Roman Women

To begin, an examination of the role of women in ancient Rome must be done. Little is known about women in the very early days of Rome. They must have had some measure of equality because they worked with their husbands on family farms. Historians know that farmers were the proverbial "backbone" of early Rome. They were hard-working farmers who had no time for leisure. After the Punic wars, in which Rome inherited almost a million slaves, the political structures of society changed as farmers moved into cities and fought for the professional army. Rome became a great empire at this point and women were granted citizenship, allowed to inherit and retain property, have wills, appear in court and have the equal testimony of a man, and even sit at the dinner table with the men in the household. There were limits to these relative freedoms, however, but citizenship, business and land-owning liberties speak volumes as to her worth in first-century Roman society.  

Marriage and Sexuality

One must divorce him or herself from the idea of modern marriage to consider the societal functionalities of ancient Roman marriages. Nobility’s marriages were often arranged, and it was a matter of social standing rather than for love. Women were usually linked with their families of origin, except in just a few circumstances. Women did not take their husbands' names and inherited wealth through their fathers, and that wealth was equal to that of their brothers. Sure, the liberties of women did depend largely on wealth and social status, but a few women did run their own businesses. 

Adultery for the ancient Romans did not have the same definition as today. One could participate in sex with slaves or prostitutes, or virtually anyone of lower social standing to them. This was true for both men and women. Loyalty was important to a Roman marriage, but loyalty did not necessarily mean faithful. Women, in reality, did have less liberty than men in this department, but it was not a matter of morality like one would think; it was a matter of paternity. If a woman were to get pregnant from an extramarital affair, then paternity and inheritance to the child could not be certain, and this could interrupt the status quo.  

Women and Roman Law

Women did have considerable influence in Roman society in spite of the fact that they did not have the right to vote. They had so much influence in fact, that it is arguable that they may have been on the verge of being given the right to vote until spread of Christianity. The influence of women in the political realm, though collateral, should not be understated. Women often participated in political discussion in a wide variety of places, yet were expected to be subject to their husbands in the public eye. Consider that though women may not have been on the verge of total equality, they may have been getting close to voting rights by the time of the Christianization of Rome.

Fall of Rome, Rise of Christianity, and Decline of Women’s Rights

Rome didn’t fall in a day, as they say, and perhaps it was no coincidence that Christianity gained popularity during those first few centuries AD. Rome, as mentioned, originally built on the backs of the middle class (the small farmers), became increasingly elitist. Eventually, politics were completely monopolized by the elite, and the middle class became disenchanted with the sovereignty of Rome. The patriotism in Rome began to wane. Many decided not to fight for the military and the number of soldiers dwindled. Perhaps it was understandable that Christianity gained popularity. The original precepts of Christianity did not distinguish between the poor or the rich, male or female, slave or free, but held all in the same regard. Thus began the exchange of the enchantment with Rome with the enchantment with Christianity.

Not only had freemen begun to question the authority of Rome, but younger women had begun to rebel against social norms by stepping out of their traditional roles, even where motherhood was concerned. Roman women were expected to bear children, but it was uncommon for Roman women to have more than a couple of kids. Women often chose not to breastfeed their infants but purchase breast milk, and for those who could afford it, full-time wet-nurses were hired to live in the home and care for infants.

One of the rights that ancient Roman women had that modern western women are still struggling to regain, is reproductive freedom. There is evidence of herbal birth controls that were high in estrogen. If the women ingested these herbs, ovulation could be suppressed, and thus, pregnancy would not occur. Spermicides, both male and female condoms, and vinegar douches were also common. Abortions were not considered a crime, because it was believed that one is not fully human until after birth. Reproductive rights might help account for the small size of most Roman families.

Christianity was still not a driving force in Rome even at just before the conversion of Constantine; however, once Constantine declared Christianity as the official religion of Rome, Christianity took on a highly political livelihood. Historians aren't so sure that the “conversion” of Constantine in the third century might not have been a political ploy, as it is common knowledge that Constantine was certainly not exclusive with his own Christianity. Perhaps he only declared Christianity to be the religion of Rome for purposes of unifying a decaying empire.

As was clear with civilizations past, successfully functioning societies need "unifying agents." In early Rome that unifying agent would have been patriotism, but in later Rome, because patriotism waned, there needed to be something else. Unifying a dying society through Christian teachings would beget control. It is admittedly speculative, but perhaps Rome thought it needed to get back to its "roots." In other words, progression may have been seen as a destructive ideal. And for the wayward women who had begun to rebel against social norms, it's possible that those who were in control of society thought that if laws governed the liberties of women, then maybe women would desire traditional gender roles, and thus restore Rome back to its original splendor. 

It should be noted that the rise of Christian principles were arguably to blame for women not having any kind of consideration or a voice at all. For instance, the once growing practice of obstetrics became obsolete by the Middle Ages. The church began to control every aspect of the lives of Christianity's observers, and women were oppressed. They no longer were protected by civil laws, people’s laws, or even natural laws. They were, in a sense, raped of all liberties and influence in society. The use of contraceptives was punishable, requiring penances lasting two to fifteen years, for it was considered as grave as the sin of murder. If any woman enjoyed sex, she was said to be prone to witchcraft. And so it was, that in a relatively short period of time, women had lost all the influence they once had at the height of the Roman Empire.

As a result of Christendom, women wouldn’t again gain much, if any, measurable headway in women’s liberties for the better part of two millenniums. And even today, there is still pressure to marry Christianity to politics. What is truly the liberation of women? For some sects of Christianity, spiritual equality will never translate to physical equality to men. For those sects, women are to be greatly respected and revered, but only within their God-given roles of obedience to their husbands and their dedication to motherhood.